


Between Two Worlds

by crackinthecup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"Harry, Harry, who do you think will spare you a second thought if you start bellowing at the top of your lungs—you, the Chosen One—that Lord Voldemort is ready to be redeemed?"' Lord Voldemort has been imprisoned in Nurmengard for almost ten years, with Harry Potter as his only visitor. War being imminent, Harry now needs a favor.</p><p>
  <strong>Indefinitely on hiatus. I'm sorry, guys. I'm a terrible human being.</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lord Voldemort did not turn around as the door to his cell fell shut with a grating _clang_. His crimson eyes were fixed on the stretch of gray roiling sea visible from the single narrow aperture in the northern wall of Nurmengard. The past month had been a blur of fog and rain, and today was no different. Voldemort idly wondered when he had last seen the sun.

A cough sounded from the doorway, and he heard the awkward shuffle of restless feet.

“Are they treating you well?”

Voldemort felt the absurd urge to laugh; there was no one left to treat him in any way. He recognized his visitor, of course. Harry Potter had asked the selfsame question ten years ago to ease his way into his first visit to Azkaban, where the erstwhile Dark Lord was imprisoned at the time. The young man had attempted to wheedle out of him the location of his eighth Horcrux. Voldemort smiled at the memory, the requisite muscles tingling painfully from disuse. He had a vague idea what the younger wizard wanted this time. Ten years ago, he had walked away empty handed.

“There will be a war,” Harry said softly, and something in his tone made Voldemort turn around. The green eyes were dull behind the famous spectacles, the skin beneath darkened with the shadow of weariness. There were lines there too, on his forehead and around his mouth. Voldemort could see resignation in that pale face, and he recognized it for the empty, subdued quality in Harry’s voice—he had never heard it there before.

“There will be a war,” Harry repeated, stepping toward Voldemort’s cot as the older man scooted aside to make more room; the young Auror dropped onto the filthy rags Voldemort had for bedclothes, pushing a hand through his hair and mussing it up completely. “It hasn’t been released to the public yet, but things are looking grim. Some say it’s unavoidable.”

Harry’s head fell onto Voldemort’s shoulder, and the Dark Lord slid an arm around his waist with all the unthinking languor of long acquaintance. Despite Voldemort’s continued silence, Harry went on: “More and more Muggles are becoming aware of our world, and the Obliviators simply cannot keep up. Just yesterday a man spray-painted the word “freaks” on the door of the Leaky Cauldron.” Harry paused to pluck his glasses off his nose and rub at the area they had occupied. “But acts of vandalism aren’t what’s got the Ministry worried. The Muggle Prime Minister isn’t cooperating. And, worse, the crazies among them have started up a movement. They’ve got a slogan: “Normal Good, Magic Bad.” And guns. That’s the important part. They’ve got guns.”

“Why should I care, Harry?” Voldemort’s voice had become hoarse from prolonged bouts of silence.

The young man drew back, startled. He seemed to flounder for a moment, at a loss for words; then, he settled for, “They will kill us. All of us. We stand no chance without your help.”

Voldemort stared for a moment at the wizard before him. He was, as ever, foolishly, unfailingly brave. “This is not my war, child.”

“I’m not a child.”

Voldemort paused, taken aback. “No,” he replied with a touch of sadness in his voice, “I forget you are not.” And then Harry leaned against him once more, head heavy on his shoulder, and he absently lifted a hand to stroke that soft, messy hair.

“Please.” It was not yet a plea, but Harry’s quiet tone was tinged with despair; black ink dripping, uncurling—staining water like poison.

Silence stretched on for so long that Harry eventually pressed his lips against the Dark Lord’s to draw some—any—reaction from the older man. Voldemort merely chuckled, the sound high and hollow as the stone walls sent it ringing around the cell.

“What would your wench of a wife say if she saw you now?” Voldemort jeered, but there was no malice in his voice.

“She’d understand,” Harry rejoined. He lifted his eyes to the other wizard’s face, but they swiveled away almost immediately; they both knew that he did not believe in his own words.

“They’ll have both our heads, Harry.”

“I’ll protect you. Please.” It was more forceful now, tinted with urgency. _I thought he’d agree …_

Voldemort had to smile, despite himself. His little hero was painfully slow in some matters. “Harry, Harry, who do you think will spare you a second thought if you start bellowing at the top of your lungs—you, the Chosen One—that Lord Voldemort is ready to be redeemed?”

Harry fell silent. The Dark Lord had a point, a point he himself had not foreseen. “I’ll hide you.” It was a feeble offer, less solution than prevarication, but Voldemort shifted to look him in the eye, spidery hands cupping his cheeks.

“Very good, Harry.” It was drawn out—sibilant; Harry shivered. “But you will need to do better than that. If you cannot make your own rules, bend theirs.”

Suddenly angry, the younger wizard frowned at the Dark Lord. He wound his fingers around cold wrists, pulling them downward, Voldemort’s long digits slipping from his face. This was Voldemort’s world as much as it was his own. The older man had no right to play games with him when the lives of hundreds of people were hanging over his head. “I won’t ask again,” he warned, pushing himself off the cot to stomp off in the direction of the door. The refusal hurt more than he would like to admit, and for all the wrong reasons.

Voldemort shifted, digging his nails into the sheets beneath him and twisting them into a frayed mess. Harry’s body heat had felt good, and its sudden absence made him shivery and uncomfortable. He hated that he had become so dependent on the boy, anticipating his weekly visits with something too close to excitement for his own comfort. He told himself that the stark isolation of Nurmengard had driven him to such depths of ignominy, that had his sole visitor been Albus Dumbledore, he would have still relished his company. But a traitorous, insidious voice in his mind—a voice wrought of his own silken tone, no less—assured him that no, he wouldn’t have, and he most certainly would not have taken the company of another to such extremes either; for he remembered Harry’s mouth soft and insistent against his own; he remembered that same mouth engulfing the most intimate part of him in liquid heat; and he remembered, arousal seeping through denial, the fierce joy of burying himself in Harry’s flesh. 

“I’ll do it,” he said suddenly, his voice harsh and loud as it bounced off the stone walls in eerie echoes.

Harry turned, wand in hand, the other palm flat against the metal doorframe. He had stopped mid-incantation—for the door was no normal door, being keyed to wands and magic with no need for bars or locks—and now a small, knowing smile curved his lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slogan used by the Muggles is a shameless allusion to George Orwell's "Animal Farm."


	2. Chapter 2

_Silence had descended over the Great Hall, a hush of fear, of apprehension, that barely held back the murmurs of the fighters. Harry was staring into those red, red eyes, and they were blank with shock, glazed over with the need to kill. But then Voldemort recovered and smiled, a terrible leer splitting his face even as the word “Horcrux” beat against the silence, too momentous to simply fade away._

_“You are a fool, Harry Potter.” The high, cold voice was oddly quiet, and Harry could sense the dark secret lurking just beneath Voldemort’s words before it was unveiled. “You think you have outsmarted me—such cruel irony, is it not, to destroy one’s own Horcrux?” And the lipless mouth opened in a rictus of mirth, soft hoots of laughter falling onto the air like snow, for Harry shuddered, and oh my God, it was impossible, he couldn’t have another one, he couldn’t …_

_But he could, and he did. The spells collided with explosive force, and Harry knew true fear in that moment, an unadulterated frisson of dread coiling in his belly and freezing his reactions at the sight of Voldemort’s mad eyes. His wand slid between his sweaty fingers, the hawthorn shrieking in agony from the deadly power of the Killing Curse. Harry could feel it shaking, trying to break the connection._

_He could not hold on to it, he could not … Magic crashed into the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall, and Voldemort screamed as rubble rained down on them. Harry saw, through a fog of dust, the Dark Lord crumpling, unconscious, to the floor, and he heard the block of stone hissing through the air, but could do nothing, could not move fast enough … There was pain and there was blood, and then there was nothing, nothing at all._

Harry shot up in his bed in Appleby, North Lincolnshire, stopping himself just short of screaming. His body was drenched in sweat and his mind in confusion: he had not had that particular nightmare in years. He let out a shaky breath as he pressed the heels of his palms against his stinging eyes.

Ginny was curled up beside him, breath deep and even in sleep. Harry relaxed back against the headboard, glad not so much because he had not awoken her, but because he would not have to explain himself. The blue-white light of dawn peeked in through the chink in the curtains, clinging to the room and its occupants like a shimmering, diaphanous veil, lending a blurry unreality to life. Ginny’s hair streamed long and red over the pillows, seemingly aglow in the pale light. Harry reached out as though to touch it, but stopped; he had loved her once for it.

He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His fingers sought out the back of his neck, rubbing the stiffness out of it, and his glasses threw the strange, dream-like unreality of early dawn into sharper focus. A cup of coffee was in order.

* * *

It was past noon when Hermione Weasley issued from the fireplace along with a dusting of ash. Her prim, navy-blue suit, coupled with the dark expression on her face, clashed with the messy cheerfulness of the Potters’ sitting room.

“Harry, you need to come in to work.” Her voice was low and hoarse, as though she could have done with a few more hours of sleep.

“It’s my day off!” Harry complained, but the attempt was only half-hearted; he knew that expression, and it heralded that Hermione would sooner drag him to the Ministry herself than settle for his absence.

“I know, Harry,” she replied rather too harshly, sounding more desperate than apologetic; there was a tightness in her voice that warned of low patience reserves.

Harry sighed. As the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione had flitted between Muggle streets and the Ministry for the better part of three months, ever since the whole debacle had started. Harry had seen her desk, and the fact that it was practically non-existent beneath tower-like piles of paperwork lent credence to Ron’s exasperation (“Muggles had better stop this – this – whatever it is they’re doing, because I am not putting Hugo to sleep again! Blimey, Harry, it took me three hours—three bloody hours!”).

It was a mess, it really was. The Statute of Secrecy seemed to have been scrapped along the way, because wizards were no longer attempting to hide their presence, but to protect their lives from Muggles. An elderly wizard who had fallen behind on his newsfeed had already been killed, beaten to death in his own backyard after a gang of Muggle teenagers saw him using spell work to enliven his half-dead flowers. It all started when a batty old lady by the name of Elsincra Saffen took it upon herself to reconcile the two worlds, fully revealing her heritage to her Muggle neighbors. Word spread, so much so that in early September, almost two weeks ago, a flurry of reports warned of coverage on Muggle news channels: wizards and witches caught in the act of performing magic, on display for all the Muggle population to see. The least sanguine at the Ministry spoke with terror of the Salem witch trials, and that, unfortunately, included the incumbent Minister for Magic, Heldan Ashcroft; Kingsley Shacklebolt would no doubt have had the situation under control in a matter of days, but he had dropped out of politics to devote himself to family life, and his successor was a pathetic, soft-hearted fool, at least as per Harry’s not-so-private opinion.

“Harry, are you even listening?” Hermione’s voice ratcheted to a scream, and the disturbance woke the sleeping baby in Ginny’s arms. “Oh goodness Ginny, I’m sorry – I—”   

“Don’t worry,” Ginny said, a hybrid between a smile and a grimace flitting across her features. She began rocking Lily Luna, cooing to her as she made to exit the room.

“Sorry, Hermione,” Harry muttered sheepishly. “What were you saying?”

Hermione was watching Ginny’s retreating form with a rather vacant stare, but her head snapped back to face Harry at the sound of his voice. “I was saying,” she resumed in a softer tone that seemed entirely incapable of holding her frustration, “that there has been another murder, and as the Head of the Auror Office, you must be present. Cleida Hopstick—you must remember her, she was one of the oldest Healers at St. Mungo’s—was shot in her home after being seen polishing her wand through an open window.” She turned away from Harry, taking a step toward the fireplace as she continued to speak in a clipped, no-nonsense voice: “Oh, and Harry? Please try to be less adamant in your opposition of the Minister’s approach. Violence on our part will only further entrench Muggles in their fear. The Minister’s negotiations with the PM may be slow, but they are still ongoing. And what are these rumors I’ve been hearing, about you and You-K – Voldemort?”

“What?” It was Ginny, who had stopped to pick a toy off the floor; although her gaze hardened into a frown, pallor stole the rosiness of her cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, like those of a deer caught in headlights. With a furtive glance at Harry (and no, he would not consider what it meant, would not dwell upon that accusing glint in her eyes), she opened her mouth to speak, but the young Auror steamrollered right over her: “Voldemort has an eighth Horcrux, and I have been questioning him about its location. Unsuccessfully, so far.”

“Is it … safe?” Ginny closed her eyes for a moment; she had thought all of that was behind them.

Hermione’s glance lingered on Harry even as she addressed the other woman. “Yes, it is. The cell is warded against Voldemort’s magic, although Harry—and any other visitor, for that matter—is free to perform any spell. Even if Voldemort somehow got his hands on Harry’s wand, the wards would render it useless. His only option would be a physical confrontation.”

“But he’d be mad to try that again,” Harry supplied, eager to stall Hermione’s venture into the subject of his stance on Voldemort’s imprisonment. “Once, years ago, he attempted to tackle a Nurmengard warden and sported a broken forearm for weeks because they refused to heal him.”

“But this is not what I wanted to talk about, Harry,” Hermione admonished with a frown. Harry had to stifle a groan. “You want him released, to help with the war effort.”

He was treated to eerily similar expressions of disapproval from the two women—small crease between the eyebrows, lips pursed in a thin line. “I don’t _want_ him released,” he burst out, cringing inwardly when he recognized his tone as the selfsame one he always adopted when Professor McGonagall called him out on a lie and he tried to delay his imminent punishment. “But he’s got experience, Hermione. He knows how to handle a war, which is more than I can say about anyone at the Ministry.”

“Yes, experience in waging war against fellow wizards.” Hermione shook her head, bushy hair bouncing about her shoulders with the vehemence of the movement. “I cannot allow this, Harry, and neither can Minister Ashcroft.”

“Hermione, we stand no chance without him!” Harry protested.

“We stand no chance _with_ him!” Hermione argued right back. “Do you truly believe he has changed, Harry? If there is one thing Voldemort is good at, it is manipulation.” The image of Albus Dumbledore, shrunken with age, as he crumpled like a horrible rag doll off the Astronomy Tower flashed into Harry’s mind; yet Dumbledore had maintained that people can change, even though—Harry scowled despite himself—he had never given Tom Marvolo Riddle the benefit of the doubt. “I’m not saying that Voldemort wouldn’t help, but have you thought this through, Harry? What would happen after the war? He would fight tooth and nail to not go back to Nurmengard. And worse, allowing him to use magic would be disastrous. Have you forgotten what he did during the war?”

Harry wanted to snap at her that no, he had not bloody well forgotten, and he had thought it through, thank you very much, and could people have a little more faith in him because he was not a bloody child anymore; but Hermione, ever the most observant among them, read something of his pique in his face, and left her post by the fireplace to lay a comforting hand on his arm.

“No one is questioning your loyalties, Harry,” she said gently, forcing a reassuring smile onto her face; it looked strained, but Harry could not but appreciate the effort. He felt guilt spread like spitting fire in his chest, and gave a half-hearted nod; he had always hated arguing with his friends. “Come on, we should be on our way.” Hermione tugged at his sleeve, shooting Ginny a half-apologetic, half-exasperated glance as she climbed into the fireplace.

“See you later,” Harry mumbled without looking at his wife, busying himself with gathering a fistful of Floo powder.

Ginny did not reply; she stared after her husband, absently trailing a hand over Lily Luna’s small body in a gentle caress, a pensive expression softening her face. 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry would have liked nothing better than to smash something. For two days he had practically lived at the Ministry, stuck in one meeting room after another, dropping by his own home only for quick naps; and yet the morons refused to see reason.

_"No, Mr. Potter, retaliation will not bring the conflict to a satisfactory conclusion."_

_"It would be madness to release the Dark Lord!"_

_"Harry, don't be paranoid, no one else will die."_

_Their ignorance will kill them_ , Harry thought fiercely, striding along the deserted marble hallways of the Department of Magical Transportation. _They will keep thinking themselves bloody untouchable until there is no one left._ He remembered that back in his school days hardly anyone signed up for Muggle Studies, and those who did were ceaselessly ridiculed. Harry huffed, vexation intensified by weariness; he doubted that the situation had changed in the interim. The corridor bent sharply to the left, and with a too-forceful tug, Harry wrenched open a wooden door, taking the rickety steps behind it two at a time.

Revulsion had crawled like a pestilence amongst witches and wizards when the words "Magic Is Might" had crowned the atrocity that had been Voldemort's ideal for the wizarding world. And yet it was there, fuelling their words and thoughts; governing their actions and their foolhardy approach to the war. They had magic, while Muggles did not; the outcome of the conflict was crystal clear—they could not lose.

But they could lose; they _were_ losing. Harry had spent hours on end poring over reports, and their import was disheartening. Despite promises that the Ministry's measures had put a stopper in the killing spree, the murder count had risen exponentially, so much so that over twenty people had met with an untimely demise since the start of this whole mess.

But Ministry employees, ostrich-like, buried their heads so far up Minister Ashcroft's ass that they heard neither warnings nor facts, while Ashcroft himself kept doling out assurances that yes, everything was under control, no he had not actually been threatened with a gun by the Muggle Prime Minister (though _of course_ he had, Harry had been there, and it was the reason the Auror Office had been ordered to provide him with a protective detail in the first place), and he was sure it would all blow over by October. Yes, blow over, as though the war were nothing more than a silly squabble; Harry could have gagged.

" _Alohomora_." The door at the top of the staircase sported a rusty Muggle padlock and rotten, splintered wood. No one ventured up here these days.

Harry pushed it open and locked it behind him. The room was dark and small, empty except for a fireplace against the back wall. None of the cleaning charms he had tried had succeeded in dispelling the stench of mildew and dank, stale air.

The Auror stepped over to the fireplace, stretching out a hand toward the pot of Floo powder on the mantelpiece. He gathered a fistful and cast it onto blackened ashes, where it erupted into brilliant green flames. The name that burst from his lips was familiar, a blessing and a curse rolled into three syllables, uttered with steely resolve. He had to pay a visit to Nurmengard.

* * *

Harry stumbled out of a nondescript black fireplace, coughing and fluttering his hands about himself in an effort to disperse the cloud of smoke clinging to his head like a noxious version of a Bubble-Head Charm. Traveling via the Floo Network was his least favorite means of transportation, but it happened to be the fastest way to reach Nurmengard as the place was heavily warded against Apparition.

He threw a cursory glance around the room, more out of habit than necessity; no guards had stepped foot inside the prison in seven years: Voldemort had no need for victuals, and there was no way in the nine layers of Hell for the man to escape without extraneous aid; besides, the Ministry had decided that placing other prisoners anywhere near Voldemort would present too high a risk.

The young man flew through the tangle of roughly-hewn rock that was Nurmengard, heart beating a tattoo against his chest. He told himself that he had nothing to lose, that he was acting in the benefit of the people—doing what was obviously the only thing to be done, even though everyone else feigned blindness. And yet his breath came faster, and he could feel the wild throb of his own pulse as though it were a drum striking a beat, counting down to what could be either his most brilliant plan or his most grievous mistake.

He was not stupid, despite what others may have intimated in the past. The rare occasions when he quelled his first impulse and weighed the consequences of his actions took the edge off the rashness that drove him to foolhardy, daredevil (and insane, according to Hermione) endeavors.

Yet this was not one of his more propitious decisions; for his first impulse had not abated, but gathered momentum to the point when Harry could no longer ignore the screaming need for action, the pressing intuition that he was, for once, right. It was, however, with trembling fingers that he drew out his wand, the other palm smoothing over his robes to check that the Invisibility Cloak was still tucked beneath, out of sight. A whispered spell, the touch of his hand against the cold metal door, and the walls shifted, groaning as the door slid into their hollow center to allow Harry passage.

"Harry?" Voldemort was seated on the cot, crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion. "It's been only two days."

"Yeah, I know, but it really _is_ me," Harry said, leashing his irritation; he had no wish to start an argument when his temper was stretched so taut that he knew he would be unable to put up with one of Voldemort's outbursts. "And we're leaving."

The Dark Lord stared at him, eyes inscrutable, before his gaze glided to the door Harry had failed to close. "We're leaving." His voice was tight and strangely empty.

"Yes, now," Harry agreed, lowering his eyes as he burrowed in the folds of his robes to pull out the Invisibility Cloak; upon noticing that Voldemort had remained immobile on the bed, he sighed and stepped toward the older man, latching onto his wrist and yanking on it.

Voldemort stood up, seemingly in a trance. He didn't dare believe ... And yet Harry was there, clutching his Invisibility Cloak and gesturing toward the open door with an expression of annoyance on his face. The boy truly had been serious about the war. But he was not a boy. No, the young man standing before him had just defied the entire Ministry of Magic to offer his parent's murderer freedom. Did he not realize how much of a gamble it was? But then Voldemort remembered that Harry never planned ahead. Still, he had not expected the young Auror to take matters into his own hands, not so soon. Perhaps his little Gryffindor _had_ learned something after all.

With a smile, he swooped forward, for once feeling joy blossoming among the numb, withered patches of forgotten emotions.

"You don't have to put it on now," Harry was saying, thrusting the Invisibility Cloak in the Dark Lord's direction. He turned on his heels, tense and flurried, frowning at the battered gold watch on his wrist.

Voldemort's smile widened as he trailed his fingers over the supple, shimmering fabric; it was cool and light, like water. Besides, bringing the Cloak along had been a smart move on Harry's part: a Disillusionment Charm, no matter how potent, would not have fooled the sensors at the Ministry.

The younger man paused in the doorway, cursing under his breath as he pointed his wand at the Dark Lord. "I'd almost forgotten about this." A bright blue light glowed around Voldemort for several seconds, before fading away into the darkness of the cell. The Dark Lord raised a hairless brow, regarding Harry with a small smirk as the latter started rattling off unnecessary explanations: "A Featherlight Charm. The door's been spelled to detect weight in case a prisoner decides to make a run for it while someone else is leaving. We should be fine, though, if we go through together." A pause, punctuated by a glare directed at the Dark Lord. "Well, are you coming? Or would you rather stay?"

Voldemort chuckled. "I am coming, my dear."

* * *

The Floo Network was a most unfortunate method of transportation, Voldemort decided as the breath was squeezed out of his lungs; he could feel dizziness blurring his consciousness, his head spinning, Harry's hand an anchor in the kaleidoscope of whirling colors. And then it was over, and he was tripping over his own feet, blindly flailing in search of support. He knocked into Harry, whose arm shot out to encircle his waist in a steadying grip.

The Dark Lord glared morosely at nothing in particular, pale pink creeping over high cheeks. God, how he hated such pathetic displays of weakness! And the brat had the audacity to chuckle! Voldemort schooled his features into a sneer as he lifted his gaze with regal slowness. Harry had removed himself from the Dark Lord's person in favor of watching him, a fond smile dancing about his lips. For the umpteenth time, Voldemort wondered why he was so lenient with the brat; had he been anyone else, he would have been on the receiving end of a very unsavory hex for his insolence.

"Come on," Harry said, dispelling the Dark Lord's somber musings. He bent down to retrieve the Invisibility Cloak from where it had fallen on the floor. "Put this on and stay close to me."

He turned toward the door, but Voldemort's words pulled him back: "Could I borrow your wand, Harry?"

"Of course." The young man did not miss a beat. (Was this what his misguided affection had led him to, this blind trust in the man who had wished him dead?) The holly wand felt familiar in Voldemort's hand, yet its very core trembled as it fought to resist the flow of his magic; he felt coldness constrict his chest at the thought of his yew wand, now lost forever, and made a mental note to bring up the subject of a new one.

Despite its resistance, the holly wand would serve him adequately. He could kill the young man before him and flee to wait out the war and rebuild his forces; he could seal Harry's corpse in this dingy room, and no one would be any the wiser; he could seek out the Minister and either force him into submission or slay him, depending on the man's level of tractability. But he did none of these things; with a lazy flick of the wand, he Transfigured his tattered, filthy rags into clean black robes; then he handed the wand back without another word.

The trek through the Ministry was mercifully uneventful. Those who did find the sight of the Head of the Auror Office traipsing through the Department of Magical Transportation unusual knew better than to question him. And so it was that within minutes Harry and his invisible companion found themselves in the Atrium, the doors of the elevator grinding shut against the tinny female voice addressing a couple of witches bound for the upper levels.

The Dark Lord walked noiselessly behind Harry, having long ago cast a wandless Soundproof Charm. The feel of magic was making him giddy; where before had been a desert, his magic fettered by the wards of Nurmengard, now there was a bubbling fountain, spilling in jolts of exhilaration through the core of his being. He hardly noticed Harry steering him inside yet another fireplace and squeezing in beside him. The name the young man said stirred a dormant, dusty memory, but it took him several seconds to connect the ancestral home of the Blacks—the house he had ordered his Death Eaters to stake out nigh on eleven years ago—with the appellation 12 Grimmauld Place.

They spilled out of a sooty, crumbling fireplace together, finding themselves in a dark, cheerless kitchen partially buried beneath a layer of grime. It was hardly a hideout—everyone knew about 12 Grimmauld Place—yet no one had stepped foot inside it in years, not since Kreacher's death. It had been too difficult, after the war, to return to a place so haunted by memories of the fallen Order members. Harry himself had dropped by only once since the war, to retrieve forgotten belongings and get rid of Mrs. Black's portrait. While it could not be removed—and Harry still had no idea what sort of Sticking Charm had been used—a simple _Incendio_ melted the canvas until nothing remained but a pile of blackened, malodorous ash beneath the scorched frame.

"So here we are," Harry began on a note of strained cheerfulness; a shiver nipped at his spine as he took in the faded kitchen, his mind unhelpfully overlaying images of Order meetings, with animated discussions to the background of a fire crackling merrily; with Fred and George goofing around until their mother threatened to kick them out; with Remus and Tonks, with _Sirius_ …

Harry cleared his throat. "Do you want to eat, or—"

"I never eat, Harry." Voldemort had taken off the Invisibility Cloak and was folding it into a neat little square, which he then placed on the table.

The younger wizard blinked. "Right. Then, how about—" he stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening with his sudden realization. "Oh! Oh, wait … Come on, this way. I have something of yours, and I reckon you want it back." He led the way out of the kitchen, toward the stairs.

Voldemort followed his companion, silent and uncomprehending. What could he possibly have that had belonged to the Dark Lord?

Up, up wooden staircases, gray with dust and creaking at every step; doors passed by in a blur, black and ancient, wrought with all the Gothic decadence of the Black family. Harry stopped before one of them, not at all dissimilar from the rest but for the golden nameplate breaking through its gloom: Regulus Arcturus Black. The younger wizard dithered for a moment, tracing the plaque with a finger, before he heaved a sigh and pushed the door open. The room was in a state of mild disarray, exactly as Harry, Ron, and Hermione had left it. It was a window into an immutable past, and Harry might have thought himself lost in a temporal loop were it not for Voldemort's dark magical aura tinting the atmosphere, that slice torn from time and space, with something raw and alive.

Harry shook his head slightly and moved to the writing desk against the opposite wall. He slid the right-hand-side drawer open, amazed that it had not become stuck like the rest of the room. In his hands, as he turned to face Voldemort again, was cradled the yew wand.

The Dark Lord froze, speechless. He reached out a hand slowly, as though afraid the glorious vision would vanish, and Harry noticed that his fingers were trembling.

"How—" Voldemort's voice was hoarse; he coughed, and tried again. "How did you come by this?" He ran his fingers lovingly over the polished wood, felt the wand mold to his skin as it, too, rejoiced at the reunion.

"Malfoy Manor was raided by a team of Aurors after the war. Several Dark artifacts were collected and destroyed, while others were stowed away. I insisted on keeping your wand."

("Harry, tell me you don't actually want to keep it." Ginny's voice was brimming with baffled revulsion as she stared down her nose at the wand as though it were something slimy and disgusting. "This," she continued disdainfully, pointing at the slip of yew, "is the wand that killed your parents."

"I know, Gin," Harry replied, incensed; why did they all think he did not remember? "It's … I …" In all honesty, he had no idea why he was drawn to the thing in the first place; but it was a pull all the same, and he did not want to see the wand snapped and discarded like a mere twig. "I want to understand its connection to mine." He waved his holly and phoenix feather wand as though to prove a point.

Ginny gave a curt nod. "All right; but I'd rather we didn't keep it here." Harry wholeheartedly agreed; the thing gave off a thrum of Dark magic that made him uneasy—he definitely didn't want it in their new house; so he abandoned it among dust and age during his one visit to 12 Grimmauld Place, to be pushed out of speech and memory for ten years.)

Voldemort's eyes were still trained upon his wand, fingers twirling it, cradling it as delicately as one might a newborn.

Harry's lips curved in a soft smile, his first real smile in days. "Go on, try it out."

The Dark Lord looked up, and Harry knew that he was staring, but could not stop; there was awe in the other man's face, and it worked alchemy there, transmuting the cruel features into something wondering and child-like. Long, spidery fingers raised the yew wand and gave it a flick, as the lipless mouth moved—minute twitches, nothing more—silently intoning the spell. The room groaned, objects flying hither and thither, detritus scurrying out of sight, and the mess disappeared, transformed into gleaming orderliness.

"Wow," Harry breathed. The effect was striking, what with the room being returned to its former glory: Harry could see the imposing, sculptured lines of the architecture favored by the Blacks, as well as Regulus' refined, slightly funereal tastes in décor. The spell had thrown them into an even more distant past, a past Harry had never known, and the lack of familiarity put him at ease.

The Dark Lord smiled, inclining his head in thanks. The wand of yew was so uniquely his—they had learned together, companions into a strange new world—and it aligned itself to his magic, letting it flow without resistance, making his spells flawless and impossibly powerful. It was a part of himself as much as his Horcruxes, albeit in a different way, and the reunion was sweet beyond words, wonder and euphoria being elided into something heady and brilliant. He almost challenged Harry to a duel, but then the young man yawned, and he noticed, for the first time, the single trail of fire at the horizon, beneath an empty, darkening sky; there would be time for dueling in the days to come.

"I'd like to take a shower," he said instead, stowing his wand inside his robes, his fingertips lingering unnecessarily, trailing over it in a caress.

Harry nodded wordlessly and walked out of the room. One flight of steps down, and the young man padded to the far end of the hallway, pushing open a door. "In here," he said, tilting his head toward the open door. "You can pick any room to sleep in. I'll be in the kitchen for a while, but I can't stay long. I need to go home." He glanced at his watch and made to move away.

Voldemort scowled. Harry was his, and he certainly did not _need_ to go anywhere, least of all back to that red-headed bint he called his wife. The older man reached out and latched onto Harry's sleeve. "You look like you could do with a shower too, Harry. Why don't you join me?" Of course he would drag the brat into the bathroom if he said no, but Harry never played nice if he was crossed.

Harry's eyes widened, and the Dark Lord let a lazy smirk settle on his face as he leaned suggestively against the doorjamb. "I …" He swallowed. "I suppose …"

Voldemort grabbed fistfuls of Harry's shirt and pulled him inside the bathroom, a wave of wandless magic slamming the door shut. "Say Harry, I suppose I should thank you for returning my wand to my possession." The Dark Lord made sure to allow his voice to lilt, molding his statement into a question, driving Harry to admit that he wanted this.

"Yes, that – that would be … ah, only polite." Voldemort's mouth was maddeningly close to his own, and Harry licked his lips, forcing air into his lungs. But then the older man stepped away, turning his attention to the bathtub, and Harry openly shivered, cock growing hard beneath his robes.

Voldemort, bent over the bathtub, angled his head to look Harry in the eye, cocking a hairless brow as though to say _Well, what are you waiting for?_

Harry jerkily shrugged his robes off, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his knickers to pull them off. He palmed his cock roughly, impatiently, shivering again, this time in pleasure. Voldemort had undressed as well, and oh God, Harry loved seeing him like this, all smooth, wonderful skin, his desire achingly obvious.

"Come, my treasure," and Harry thought he might just from hearing that rough edge in Voldemort's voice.

The water was pleasantly warm, and the Dark Lord's hands were at his waist, pulling him into a kiss. It was lazy, all heat and tongues and lips, and Harry felt the other man's fingers threading through his hair, tipping his head back for a deeper kiss. He moaned into Voldemort's mouth, slipping his arms about the other's shoulders, guiding him so that their cocks rubbed against each other.

Voldemort shifted, reversing their positions and pushing Harry against the wall. The water was directly overhead now; he was thoroughly soaked, and he realized, belatedly, that he really should have taken his glasses off. The Dark Lord seemed to read his mind (and perhaps he did as Harry would not stop him), for he plucked the glasses off the young man's nose and, stretching over to the sink, deposited them there. And then Voldemort's lips were at his throat, soft and insistent, and Harry forgot all about his miserable eyesight.

Down over his chest now, feather-light, kissing a nipple with just a hint of tongue, just enough to make Harry's mouth drop in a delectable "O" of pleasure. Down over his stomach (and Voldemort loved the quiver beneath that warm skin, loved Harry's complete surrender), down, down, and there was liquid heat engulfing his cock, and he would have thrust into that delicious wetness had Voldemort's hands not pinned him to the wall, but as it was he could only mewl and arch his back, trying to get closer.

"Patience, my little Gryffindor," Voldemort chided, and Harry's response was torn out of him in a cry because, oh God, he felt the scrape of teeth, and then a tongue soothing, and patience be damned, Voldemort was sucking him, harder, faster, fingers at his balls, teasing lightly, and, oh God, the Dark Lord choked around his cock, but he was too far gone, his hips stuttering forward of their own accord.

Harry felt that sinful tongue swirling round the head, and then Voldemort's hands were at his hips again, nails digging in, keeping him immobile, and the man himself pulled off with a wet _pop_ , drawing a whine from his parted lips.

"Oh, come _on_ , Tom!" Harry blinked his eyes open and glared at his lover through a curtain of steam; he had been so very, very close.

The Dark Lord took in the sight before him: a hectic blush was dancing high on Harry's cheeks, and his green eyes, impossibly wide without his glasses, were darkened in lust; Voldemort thought he looked beautiful. A hot, dark surge of possessiveness made him scrape his nails down Harry's throat, tracing the artery there, leaning forward to bite at the area; he needed to mark him, to brand him as his, for, Horcrux or not, Harry Potter had always belonged to him.

"Tom," the young man panted, tilting his head to offer the Dark Lord better access; Voldemort heard the plea on those trembling lips, although Harry would not beg, not yet.

"Does she make you feel like this, Harry? Does she pull such delicious moans from your lips?" There was an edge to Voldemort's voice.

Lust-blown green eyes blinked up at him. "Who?"

"Your _wife_ ," the Dark Lord hissed, spitting out the word as though it were poison. He turned Harry around roughly, pushed him face-first against the wall, even as his hand landed on the other man's ass with a loud _smack_.

Harry yelped, the cool tiles against his cock providing maddening titillation rather than relief. And then fingers were sliding down the crack of his ass, probing at his puckered hole, and he pushed back against them, and, oh _please_ , anything to get them inside.

"Do you act like such a slut with her too, begging her for more?" Voldemort had no right to say such hateful things (and hadn't Harry given him enough?), but coherence left him as two fingers breached his entrance, dry except for the water dripping down their bodies, scissoring, twisting, and— _oh_!—they rubbed against his prostate with deft roughness, and he whimpered, knees turning to jelly as heat pooled in his stomach, the pressure of his impending orgasm coiling ever tighter.

Harry groaned as his lover added a third finger, his skin yielding unwillingly to the drag of that dry flesh, stretching and burning beneath Voldemort's ministrations. The sound broke something within the Dark Lord; consumed with the need to possess utterly, to fuck the younger wizard until he could remember nothing but the feel of Voldemort inside him, he withdrew his fingers and positioned the head of his cock, now warm and slick from a wandless Lubrication Charm, against Harry's entrance.

The young man had not been sufficiently prepared, and he cried out in pain upon penetration, especially as Voldemort sheathed his cock completely inside him in one thrust and then simply did not stop. But, oh, how he loved having the Dark Lord inside him, his deep, hard thrusts grounding him in his own body, wrenching control from him (and it was most willingly given, for finally, _finally_ Harry did not need to think, to act, his only task to keep his legs spread and just take it); how he craved it too, the soreness, the stinging pressure on his hips where he knew blue-black bruises would bloom.

"Please," Harry gasped, pushing back with every thrust, fingers scrabbling for purchase against smooth, slick tiles. He was light-headed with the need to come, and oh God, oh _fuck_ , Voldemort's hand was at his cock, closing around him in a hard, sure grip, and he was stroking now, oh _yes_ , stroking with delicious pressure, and he thrust up into that hand, once, twice, and—

His orgasm knocked the breath out of his lungs, and he let his head fall against the tiled wall, mouth open in a silent scream, muscles shrugging off the tension of the past few days. He felt Voldemort picking up his pace, and was more than happy to let him use his body for the time being, to chase after his own pleasure. That bruising grip was back at his hip, his lover's breath warm and fast against the fine hair at his temple. He sagged against the wall, spreading his legs even further, and one, two, three thrusts were enough to push the Dark Lord over the edge, for Harry heard the oath that tumbled off his lips, felt wetness splash against his inner walls. And then Voldemort was slumped against his back, heartbeat wild but gradually slowing down, arms snaking around Harry's waist in a rare display of post-coital affection.

The younger man sighed happily, leaning back to rest his head on his lover's shoulder. He noticed with vague surprise that the water was getting colder. "We should get out," he murmured, turning around to press his lips to Voldemort's in a soft, chaste kiss.

The older man nodded, disentangling himself from Harry's limbs. It was strange and unexpected, this need to hold the brat. He had never understood people's proclivity for physical contact, their obsession with copulation, not even as a teenager; while other boys his age had been romping from one tryst to another, he had buried himself in the Dark Arts, fascinated by magic and eager to push the limits. People had trembled before him, awed by his skill and humbled by his power; and then there was Harry, the quintessential Gryffindor—unremarkable, brave, foolish, never treating him with the amount of respect befitting the greatest sorcerer of their time. But perhaps that was the brat's secret, the key to their unaccountable connection.

"I really need to go," Harry said apologetically. Voldemort glanced up—the young man was fully dressed, but his cheeks were still flushed—and nodded again, brusquely this time. His heart gave a strange lurch as Harry's retreating form vanished in the gloom of the hallway. He could not bring himself to hate the brat for the trough of confusion he would dine on tonight.

* * *

Harry, hidden underneath his Invisibility Cloak, Apparated onto the porch of his house in Appleby, North Lincolnshire. Stars dotted the night sky, twirling and winking in their spheres. Soft light gilded the drawn curtains at his and Ginny's bedroom window, but his children's rooms were dark and silent. His fingers fumbled inside his robes for a minute in search of his key, and then, heaving a sigh, Harry stepped forward and let himself in.

Nothing stirred inside the house, and Harry suddenly felt tired and more than a little guilty. He sighed again, rubbing at his stiff neck, and hung up the Cloak before climbing upstairs as noiselessly as he could. He pushed open the door to his bedroom ever so slowly, but its creak still startled Ginny, who looked up from her book in surprise before her features softened in a smile.

"Oh, hi, Harry," she said, inserting a bookmark and tossing the novel aside. She was wearing a knee-length nightgown, the silk shining dark green in the light from the bedside lamp.

"Hey, Gin," Harry replied, smiling back; this was easy, natural, as though nothing had changed. _But of course it has_ , a traitorous voice whispered in his mind, _everything has changed_ _; you're fighting a new war now, with new deaths and new allies, and you're fucking the Dark Lord._

"Ashcroft kept you in a meeting again?"

"No, it was reports this time."

"You look tired," Ginny stated with forthright candor. "Why don't you come to bed?"

"I will, but I'd like to shower first."

"All right." Ginny picked up her book again, and Harry hurried out of the room, to the bathroom across the corridor.

He rotated the faucet so that water would start pouring into the bathtub, although he had no intention of taking a shower. ( _Of course you don't, you've already done that and so much more, haven't you?_ ) Harry took off his robes, letting them pool on the floor and leaving them there, and stood before the mirror with his wand in hand.

" _Vulnera Sanentur_." He drew the holly wand down his throat, where Voldemort's teeth had pierced through his skin, to his bruised hips, removing all signs that something other than paperwork had held his attention that day. Harry then turned off the water, brushed his teeth, and reached for the pair of pajama bottoms slung over the radiator.

Ginny seemed to have discarded her book for good that night: her nightdress was bunched up around her waist, and she lay on her back, legs spread and fingers dipping into her own quim.

"It's been a while since we've had sex." Ginny had always been open about her desires.

Harry deposited his wand on the nightstand and dutifully stepped out of his pajamas. To refuse would seem too out of place. ( _And shagging the Dark Lord isn't?_ ) He crawled over to Ginny's side of the bed, lowering himself to cover her body with his own. She reached up to card her fingers through his hair, pulling him into a kiss, and as their tongues flicked against each other, she deepened the kiss, moaning into his mouth. Her voice seemed too soft, too warm, too feminine.

Although he had already come once that day, Ginny's fingers cupping his balls and stroking up his length made blood rush into his groin. Was this love, this sense of understanding, of companionship? As Ginny wrapped her legs around his waist, the hand nestled between them guiding his cock to her entrance, and he trailed tender, open-mouthed kisses down the pale column of her throat, Harry thought it might be.

He thrust into her gently—gently, it was always gently with her, for even their wildest couplings were not infused with the rough-edged desperation, the mad tangle of bodies he experienced with Voldemort—and buried himself half-way in her wetness. She moaned again as he started rocking against her, slurring his name, eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure, and, pressed up against her as he was, he could not help thinking that she was soft in all the wrong places.

"Harry." He had sped up. As she touched her lips to his in another kiss, he slid a hand downward, toward their joined bodies, and flicked her clit. Ginny arched into his touch, and he fell to rubbing her nub, going through the motions mechanically, feeling guilt settle like lead in his stomach with every thrust.

Was this love, this need to protect her? He thought back to Hogwarts, to lazy, sun-bathed afternoons spent beside the lake, exulting in the thrill of novelty, touching, kissing, tasting—mapping out each other's bodies with fumbling, youthful wonder. He knew her hair to be the flaming red of yore, but the lamplight dulled it, casting a shadowy pall over its sheen. Her eyes too—those brown eyes with their vivacious spark—seemed smudged, individuality rubbed away to a dark, shallow brown by shadows.

Ginny came beneath him with a soft cry, and he did too, pushed to the edge by her tightening muscles. He held her afterwards, the lamp extinguished, the room lost in darkness. Harry absently stroked her hair, listening to her breath as it evened out in sleep, and wondered if he still loved her—if he had ever truly loved her.

For if this was love, what was the dark, aching longing in his heart—that hypnotic pull that, like a tidal wave, drew him under, trapped and dizzy with lack of oxygen, acquiescing to the sweetest surrender? What was his irresistible fascination with the broken, impossible creature at 12 Grimmauld Place?


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Voldemort was pacing. He needed to think and, more importantly, to act. Harry’s absence had crept on, insidious, one postponed rendezvous loosening his nerves about the next. _Just one more day … It’s insane here at the Ministry … I’ll drop by as soon as I can …_ Short letters, with Harry’s crowded handwriting slipping sloppily across the parchment in his haste to pen them.

The young man’s absence troubled him. The sweet miasma of freedom, which had buoyed him up through the dreariness of 12 Grimmauld Place, was dissipating slowly, wafting through his pores to vanish in darkness and dust, as the fragrance of late-summer lilacs might when the chill of autumn banishes it into fallow ground.

A fire was crackling merrily in the hearth, but its heat, its light were held at bay, as though the shadows spanning the drawing room floor were corporeal in their menace. Wind hissed against the windowpanes, seeking entry, as rain pummeled the glass like fists. Voldemort shivered, drawing closer to the fire. And why should he not act? Why should he hang on the brat’s every word?

(“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do _what_?” Voldemort snapped, lifting livid eyes from his studious examination of the cracks in the cell’s stone floor. Potter’s questions were grinding his nerves together; he almost wished the boy had not come.

Potter extended his arm in an awkward, curtailed sweep. “Everything. The murders.”

Voldemort’s vexation smoothed out into a blank expression. “They were in my way.”

“But why Muggle-borns? Why Muggles?” the boy blurted out, uncoiling his arms from his chest in a fit of exasperation. “Why did you target them?”

The Dark Lord sneered, sharp fingernails tearing at the bedclothes beneath him. “They are nothing but scum, boy.”

“They are humans, just like us!” Potter screamed, hands balling into fists.

The other man’s laughter cut through his red-hot pique like a blade of ice. Potter stared, the argument momentarily forgotten, as wild, mirthless cachinnations rang round the cell. Voldemort could see his own madness reflected in those wide green eyes, could see his own pupils swimming in blood. “Do you still believe, _dear Harry_ ,” the Dark Lord began with a savage smile, “that I am human?”

“Don’t call me that,” Potter snarled and glanced away.

The Dark Lord ignored him. “They are, as you put it, _humans_ , and the worst sort imaginable,” the older wizard resumed, all traces of mirth, of madness subsumed under aloof gravitas. “They are cruel and narrow-minded, the latter making the former boundless.” He steamrollered right over Potter’s stammered “But—” and began to pace. “You all deem Lord Voldemort insane for harping on blood purity, but, ah, you cannot see, you cannot understand … I am not mad, Potter.”— _a lie, a vile, disgusting lie, and you know it_ —“Breeding with Muggles dilutes magical blood. The process is slow, but the outcome cannot be debated: magical ability will wane if this practice does not cease; it is merely a question of how rapidly the declension will occur. Squibs were unheard of back in the days of ancient magic, when witches and wizards did not require wands, but could nonetheless perform remarkable feats of sorcery by harnessing their raw magical energy—a skill foreign to sorcerers nowadays, and, I regret to say it, impossible for them to master. Yet now—now Squibs litter the magical community because blood purity has been compromised by lovesick fools.”

“Inbreeding cannot fare much better either,” Potter retorted sullenly; his argument had been torn apart.

The Dark Lord smiled again, not bothering to keep derision out of it. It was typical: the brat did not even have his facts straight. “Inbreeding—that is, where magical blood is involved—has no ill effects, for the magic of a hypothetical fetus will ward off deformities or crippling diseases.”

“But killing is wrong!” Potter argued, retracing his steps to a more secure footing. “You can’t just … You have no right to – to kill, to take someone’s life. Who do you think you are?”

“Do not speak to me of rights, Harry Potter. I am Lord Voldemort: I have every right to—”

“No, you bloody well do not! You—” Potter cut himself off, and his gaze hardened. “You know what? This is fucking hopeless. I don’t know why I even bother. _You_ are hopeless, Riddle, absolutely hopeless.”

“Then why are you here?” the Dark Lord hissed, voice being elided into a cold susurrus that seemed to echo round the cell, as though coming from the walls themselves, long after the words had been spoken. Potter made no reply.)

Voldemort’s steps had carried him to the hearth; he was staring into the flames, vacant eyes distilled into garnet wine. The war was not his to fight, and, truly, it was high time those fools at the Ministry learned to clean up their own mess. He did not need the brat either; he had never needed the brat. And he doubted his fortitude was such that he could endure Harry’s deluded notions of love for much longer; the Dark Lord had indulged the young man’s fantastical faith in him, but—

(“You can feel and – and love; that’s what being human is all about.” And Harry wound his arms around the older man, green eyes wide and shining in the strip of silver moonlight reaching out through the aperture in the wall.

“I cannot, Harry.” A small, sad smile brushed across Voldemort’s features; he lifted a hand, ghostly pale in the moonlight, to cup the other man’s youthful, burning cheek.

“Yes, yes you can.”)

The Dark Lord dithered for a moment. He reached for his travelling cloak, regarding it thoughtfully, smoothing out the crinkles in it. Then he left. The front door slammed with such force that the layer of dust perched on the lintel heaved in a whorl, before settling thick and quiescent on the ground.

* * *

“We have to do something!” Harry began, addressing the congregation of Ministry officials seated around a long wooden table. He could not believe they were delving into this subject yet again. _Well, if this meeting goes on long enough, there might not be anyone left for us to protect. Huh. If they weren’t such morons, I’d assume that is actually their end-game._

“Violence breeds violence,” Hermione retorted; she was holding a pencil, twirling it between her fingers in a manner eerily reminiscent of Voldemort.

Harry dragged his gaze upward, toward her face. (It was only too easy to picture those pale, long-fingered hands absently toying with the yew wand and—Harry mentally kicked himself—doing all manner of wonderful, sinful things that involved him rather than a slip of wood.) He coughed awkwardly, willing the blush to drain from his cheeks. “What do you suggest then?”

“We must show them we harbor no ill intentions.” Seeing her friend’s skeptical frown, she appended: “Negotiations, Harry. We must convin—”

“Yes, because that’s worked so well before!” the young Auror sniped. “Hermione, a child has died—”

“Mr. Potter.” Heldan Ashcroft’s brittle voice quavered with uncertainty; staff meetings were not his forte. He held up a hand to augment his supplication for silence. “That information is still classified.”

But he was a short, potbellied man with a mop of mousy hair perching like a bird’s nest on the top of his otherwise bald head, and the subtle reprimand did nothing to quell the horrified curiosity rippling across the assembled witches and wizards.

“A child … has died?” The question was whispered from further down the table, by a middle-aged witch whose waxy, indistinct features and graying hair contrasted sharply with the blob of lurid mauve that was her clothing.

“Yes, Mrs. Dunstan,” the Minister acquiesced, voice tight.

Several moments of tense silence ticked by. Seeing that Ashcroft had no intention of adding a qualifying statement, Harry explained: “A seven-year-old girl was being bullied by her Muggle neighbors, and she lost control over her magic.”—Hermione’s pencil snapped in two—“A boy was thrown backward and broke his arm. The others lashed out. The girl ended up in St. Mungo’s, comatose and bleeding. She passed away last night.”

Ashcroft coughed into the silence. “Well …” He hesitated; wiped sweat from his rounded forehead. “If that is all you have to impart, Mr. Potter …” But no one took the cue. The little girl’s ghost seemed to linger in the air, just behind the unvoiced remarks of those present, cold and implacable. Her small fists were beating against their thoughts, dislodging them from the clutches of lethargy, hauling them into the pressing need for action.

Harry’s eyes scanned the contemplative faces of the Ministry officials before they were drawn, involuntarily, to Hermione’s stricken expression; he could see his thoughts reflected in her eyes—long winter nights in desolate wilderness, spent perusing Rita Skeeter’s _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ ; a portrait in the Hog’s Head; a slender, delicate girl with wide, watery eyes; Ariana …

Ashcroft coughed again. “Mrs. Weasley, you … you said you have something to discuss with us.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “No, Minister. It is no longer necessary.”

“Surely, Mrs. Weasley, it is important to broach—”

The young woman shook her head. “It is no longer necessary, Minister,” she reiterated, pointedly this time.

Ashcroft sighed; he looked close to tearing his hair out. “It needs to be addressed,” he mumbled to himself; and then, gulping a great breath of air, he turned to Harry: “Mr. Potter, you have suggested that the Dark Lord be released.”

The table erupted in murmurs, and quite a few glances were aimed in Harry’s direction. He ignored them; when he spoke, his voice was low and calm: “Yes, Minister Ashcroft, to help with the war effort.” The young Auror stood up, leaning forward ever so slightly, hands firmly planted on the table. “Lord Voldemort has led an army twice, in two wars. If anything, he has experience, and he has mastered magic far beyond the knowledge of any Ministry worker. We need him on our side.”

There were scattered murmurs of assent. The Minster, flustered, embarked on a frantic search for words. “But he … His methods aren’t exactly … conciliatory … He has done terrible things …”

“Harry Potter defeated him,” offered a wizard with a short white beard and restless eyes.

“Twice,” piped up a young, plump witch with glasses.

“He must know what he’s talking about,” supplied the wizard, nodding sagely.

Harry was speechless; he had prepared for many reactions, but support did not count among them.

“But he is a criminal, a murderer,” Ashcroft cried, uncomprehending. “He has—”

But the Minister never had the opportunity to finish that sentence. The door of the meeting room swung open, and in popped a lanky, spotty twenty-something who had a lowly job in the Auror Office.

“Mr. Potter?” His voice was thin and nervous.

“Yes, Robert?”

“A Mrs. Scamander is looking for you. She has a parcel she claims you must receive personally. She says it’s important.”

Harry gave a curt nod. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this discussion another time,” he said over his shoulder, sounding entirely unapologetic, as he stepped away from the table.

“Mrs. Weasley?”—Hermione looked up—“I was instructed to ask you to come as well. It appears that a Memory Charm has been performed.”

* * *

Diagon Alley was deserted. _Just as well_ , Voldemort thought, tugging the hood of his cloak lower over his face. Rain lashed the narrow, cobbled street, and yet the tall, cloaked man standing in the middle of it remained warm and dry. He walked briskly, loath to linger in such a public place.

12 Grimmauld Place had yielded its secrets to him; the library, in particular, did not disappoint. The Dark Lord had devoted an entire afternoon to scanning the dusty shelves piled high with ancient volumes, but at last he had found it: _Moste Potente Potions_. The potion would need several days to brew, but it suited his purpose perfectly: fluxweed, for mutability; Lethe River water, for forgetfulness; snake fangs, for deception; salamander blood, for strength; asphodel, for death; eel’s eyes, for vision; dandelion root, for magical control. Yes, his plan was superbly ingenious.

He pushed open the door of the Apothecary. The welcoming tinkle of the bell was instantly overpowered by the nauseating, clogging stench permeating the tiny shop. Voldemort scowled at nothing in particular, fighting off the impulse to retch.

“How can I—” The wizened shop-owner paled, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish on dry land, at the sight of the Dark Lord’s visage, now denuded of the hood.

Voldemort paid him no heed, advancing into the shop and sliding a torn piece of parchment across the counter, toward the quaking wizard. “Get me these ingredients”—a milky nail tapped the parchment—“and be quick about it.”

The old man did not move. “I must be dreaming,” he murmured in a rasping, sand-like voice. “I must be dreaming.”

“You are not dreaming,” the Dark Lord said coldly. “Now, if you do not wish to see the Dark Mark hanging above your shop—and the dwellings of your relatives, make no mistake—then I suggest you provide me with the ingredients.”

The shop-owner seemed to need no other incentive. He gulped, almost choking on air, but scrambled out from behind the till all the same. Voldemort watched him dispassionately as he bustled about the shop, fervently wishing the man would cease his infernal trembling and retrieve his paraphernalia; the stench was becoming unbearable.

The aged wizard dropped the ingredients into a pouch, which he extended to the Dark Lord with shaking fingers. “Please,” he croaked, sunken, bleary eyes pleading. “I d-did what you asked of m-me, my – my Lord. Please.”

But Voldemort was no longer listening. With the strip of parchment crumpled in one clawed hand, he sought his wand in the folds of his cloak with the other and pointed it at the blubbering shop-owner. “ _Obliviate_.”

* * *

“Luna?” Harry approached the young woman standing beside his desk. “Did you want to see me?”

Luna Scamander nodded, gray eyes wide and blank. She was clutching a ratty brown parcel, small in size and messily wrapped, which he extended to Harry without a word.

Harry regarded her uncertainly, glancing at Ronald Weasley, who had ushered Luna into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the first place.

“It’s safe, mate,” Ron assured him with a nod. “We checked it.” He then sidled up to Hermione, whispering an aside to her: “She’s been like this since she came in, staring but not saying a word. She shook her head and grunted when we tried to take that thing from her. Very suspicious, if you ask me. That’s why I told what’s-his-name to get you down here as well. Looks like a Memory Charm.”

“Or the Imperius Curse,” Hermione rejoined, frowning slightly.

Harry’s gaze lingered on his two best friends for a moment. Then he reached out and took the parcel. Ron had said it was safe … He frowned at it, lifting it up to the light for a better look; but the package looked ordinary. Glancing at Ron and Hermione again, he sighed and set about unwrapping it. In for a penny, in for a pound …

“Harry?” Luna’s voice cracked. “Oh—” She swayed on the spot, and Hermione flew to her side, helping her into a chair.

“Luna? Are you all right?” Hermione brushed strands of platinum hair off the other woman’s damp forehead.

“Yes,” came the soft reply. “Just dizzy.”

“What happened?” Ron had kneeled beside Luna’s chair and was peering up into the pale face with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Do you remember anything?”

Luna shook her head. “Not much, no. Oh, I’m sorry—that was not what you wanted to hear, was it?” Her eyes swiveled between her three friends with mild, foggy interest.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache pounding against his temple. The parcel lay innocuous and unassuming on his desk, but he picked it up again and tore off the brown wrapping in one smooth movement. Inside was nestled a slip of yellowed parchment, rolled into a scroll.

He turned to the others with the scroll in hand. “It’s a piece of parchment,” he stated, waving it about as though to make a point; the discovery was more than a little anti-climactic.

The furrow between Hermione’s eyebrows deepened. “Don’t you remember anything at all?” she inquired of Luna, a twang of frustration in her voice. “Not even how you came by the package?”

“No,” the other woman replied evenly. “The last thing I remember is looking at an island in the distance. You see, Rolf and I were on vacation, in Madagascar. Madagascar is, of course, the only place where one can still find a Re’em colony. Rolf is fascinated by Re’em. And Spangled Snookers live there too. They love the heat and are really very friendly creatures, even though they do not like company very much.”

Harry blinked. Half the time, he had no idea what Luna was talking about. Ron and Hermione were not faring much better either: while Ron seemed to find the plain white wall just behind Luna’s left shoulder engrossingly fascinating, Hermione was nodding politely; but Harry, having been confronted with it only too many times, knew that thin line of disapproval in which her lips had settled, and he knew that, had the occasion allowed for levity, she would have rattled off at least ten sources disproving the existence of Spangled Snookers.

As it was, however, she merely asked, “You mentioned an island, correct?” Luna nodded. “Did you visit said island?”

“I don’t know.”

Hermione visibly deflated. “Would you mind if I looked into your mind, Luna?”

Ron goggled at her as Harry choked in the background. Luna looked unperturbed. “Not at all,” she answered with a vague smile.

“All right.” Hermione drew out her wand. “This will only take a minute. _Legilimens_.”

Luna’s eyes waxed blank and unfocused as Hermione’s gaze hovered fixedly, intensifying by the second. Harry and Ron exchanged curious glances.

“Did you know she could do that?” Harry whispered, not speaking louder for fear of intruding upon the breathless silence; Hermione’s concentration was unnerving. Ron shook his head, skin pale beneath dark freckles.

And then the moment shattered as Hermione inhaled shakily and Luna rubbed at her forehead. Hermione stepped behind the other woman’s chair, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder as she met Harry’s and Ron’s questioning eyes. “Nothing,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “There was nothing.”

“And?” her husband prompted, confusion plain in his countenance.

“ _And_ ,” Hermione began, gearing up for full lecture-mode, “that is not normal. A Memory Charm does not erase memories; it simply veils them so that they become inaccessible. _But they are still there_. Even a Legilimens with a basic understanding of the craft should be able to retrieve them, or at least sense them as disturbances in the mind’s fabric. But I could not find anything. Hours on end are missing from her memories, and there is nothing to account for them.”

“What does it mean then?” Harry asked, growing more and more perplexed.

Hermione heaved a sigh; her fingers tightened on Luna’s shoulder. “It means that the person who cast the Memory Charm is incredibly powerful—the literature completely skirts such a possibility, but, in theory, it is plausible—or that the spell was modified to create this specific effect. Spell modification is very complex and nigh on impossible for the uninitiated. So, either way, it must have been someone of great magical prowess.”

No one spoke for one throbbing moment. Then: “What’s on the parchment?” Ron was eying the scroll in Harry’s hand with guarded suspicion.

Harry struggled with the knot of rope cinching the scroll into a bow-like shape; it came undone and slithered to the floor. He smoothed out the parchment gingerly—the thing looked ready to crumble into dust at any moment—and spread it flat on the desk: it was a faded map. Harry trailed his fingers over it, juggling the maddening feeling that something was missing. But the moment his skin made contact with the ink, he drew back with a hiss of pain, as though scalded.

Dark magic was rolling off the map in waves, its unbound power thrumming in overwhelming, raw pulses. The very air in the office thickened, growing colder, more compact—charged with something like electricity, but somehow heavier, more palpably present.

Hermione advanced warily. The tip of her wand barely grazed the parchment, but she instantly recoiled with a gasp. She pocketed her wand, retreating to a safer distance. “This is very Dark magic,” she murmured, more to herself than to the others. “Not even the Horcruxes were impregnated with so much power.”

Although the others hung back, unwilling to go near the thing, Harry felt drawn to it; he felt it was important to know, to understand the map. He stepped closer, drawing a single finger across its surface, studying its details. He could feel magic against his skin, prickling, electrifying, but not at all unpleasant. His eyes slid to the bottom-right corner, and he frowned, leaning closer to get a better look: the ink was smudged, worn away to nothing, and beneath there were tiny, curved symbols in bold black.

Harry gathered the map in his hands, rolling it up gently, meticulously. “I’d like to show this map to someone. Y’know, get a second opinion.”

Luna made no reply, and Ron shrugged, declaring his waning desire to be involved in this matter. But Hermione appraised him with a knowing look in her intelligent brown eyes. “Just … be careful, Harry,” she said, and fell to assisting Luna.

* * *

It was early evening when Voldemort made it back to 12 Grimmauld Place. The sky was a steely gray streaked with black, but at least it had stopped raining. He let himself in quickly and headed upstairs, to his room, the pouch from the Apothecary jingling in his hand.

He peeled the travelling cloak off his shoulders, laying it out over the back of a high-backed chair, and set flames roaring in the fireplace. The bedroom was dark and small, but it was the tidiest 12 Grimmauld Place had to offer. The dark green brocade spanning the windows let very little light through, and the daring, hardy rays that refused to be turned away acquired a greenish hue, as though the chamber were an underwater sepulcher. It rather reminded Voldemort of the Slytherin dormitories at Hogwarts.

The Dark Lord swept the sundry books and handwritten notes strewn across an ebony table into a neat pile at its edge, and, rummaging in the pouch, lined up the ingredients in the order in which he would use them. He had found a rusty pewter cauldron in his exploration of the house, and proceeded to Summon it from inside the closet, where he had stored it, out of sight. After all, it would not do for Harry to stumble across such accoutrements and piece together a rough sketch of his plan.

He lightly tapped the side of the cauldron with his wand; arms of fire shot out around it, licking up its blackened base. A non-verbal _Aguamenti_ filled it with water. He smiled to himself; while he had never possessed enough patience to transmute potion-making into a passion, the craft was undeniably engaging, and distraction was precisely what he needed right now—something to focus on, something to replace the stray thoughts at the edge of his mind.

* * *

Harry tripped out of the fireplace, the kitchen in the Blacks’ ancestral home swinging into view. Shadows draped over the room, engulfing its very essence, and Harry cursed under his breath, burrowing in his robes.

“Where the hell did I— Oh, shit.” The holly wand rolled away from him, wood pattering against the stone floor. He had a few choice words to say about his miserable eyesight—he could see nothing, nothing at all—but conceded that the matter at hand was more important. “ _Lumos_!”

A blob of white light glowed from underneath the table, and Harry bent down, snatching his wand, and headed toward the staircase.

“Tom! I’m back!” he called, taking the stairs two at a time; the gloom and the silence made him uneasy.

* * *

Thirteen stirs clockwise. Pouring the Lethe River water in. Fifteen stirs anti-clockwise. Voldemort waved his wand, reducing the potion to a simmer. It glimmered opalescent in the soft firelight, but its murky blue depths gaped open as bubbles burst its surface. It would thin to a limpid, water-like liquid by morning, but the Dark Lord need not attend to it for the time being. He heard Harry calling him, and idly wondered how the brat had managed to suppress his natural instinct for ungodly timing.

“I need to talk to you!” Harry yelled from a lower level. Voldemort glided out of the room, locking the door behind him. He roughly suppressed the inchoate thoughts swirling in his mind like mist, making all other concerns immaterial. He was _not_ glad of Harry’s presence; it was a matter of perfect indifference to him.

They met on the stairs, the young man nearly barreling into the tall, silent shadow that was Lord Voldemort. “Oh, there you are,” Harry gushed distractedly before the older wizard even had a chance to open his mouth. “There’s something you need to see.” And with that he turned on his heel, leading the way to the sitting room with a quietly seething Dark Lord in his wake.

He had expected Harry to apologize, to proffer some explanation for his protracted absence; but the brat had not even mentioned it, and now he had the audacity to make demands of Lord Voldemort! _He might kiss you to make up for it._ He was quick to decide that such musings did not belong to him.

The fire Voldemort had lit that afternoon had died out long ago. Harry cast a careless _Incendio_ , barely looking at what he was doing. For a second the Dark Lord thought the spell would hit the portrait above the mantelpiece rather than the logs beneath; it would have been a good thing too—that portrait was ghastly.

But the spell struck true. Harry beckoned him to the couch, and Voldemort noted, with a mild prick of interest, that the young man was holding what looked like a piece of parchment.

“A friend of mine brought this to the Office today,” Harry began, sinking into the couch. The Dark Lord sat beside him, reaching for the scroll. The tips of his fingers brushed against it—he withdrew his hand with a startled hiss.

“Where would anyone find such an artifact?” he queried breathlessly, crimson eyes growing wide with astonishment. It was impossible! And Harry must not have realized …

The young man explained, oblivious: “That’s the thing. She does not remember. We thought she was under the influence of a Memory Charm, but … Memory Charms leave traces, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Voldemort breathed, cradling the scroll in his hands; he was turning it over, staring at it in awe, his eyes alive with a preternatural glow.

“But, see, my friend had no memories. Hermione, she’s a Legilimens, and she searched but could not find anything.”

The Dark Lord smiled. “It does not surprise me.”

Harry waited, but the other man appended no explanation. “Care to elaborate?”

That same cryptic smile. “In due time, Harry.”

The young man glared at him, before giving it up for a lost cause. _The bloody git’s enjoying himself._ “There’s a map printed on the parchment,” he went on, frustration nipping at his composure, “but I think there’s writing underneath.” Voldemort had unfurled the scroll, and Harry reached over and jabbed a finger at the bottom-right corner. “See here? These symbols? They could be letters.”

“They _are_ letters,” the Dark Lord amended. When Harry made to touch it again, the older man moved it out of his reach, pinning him with a glare. “This is an invaluable ancient artifact, brat. We do not _poke_ it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Do you know the language then?”

“It’s Parseltongue,” Voldemort replied without looking at him; the map was perched on his lap, and he was trailing his fingers across it almost reverently.

“Parseltongue?” The young man could do little but stare in wonder at the slip of parchment.

“Parselscript, if one wishes to be punctilious.”

“You can read it, can’t you?” The Dark Lord nodded. “Well, can’t the rest of the writing be revealed?” Harry picked up his wand, let it hover over the map. “ _Specialis Revelio_!”

Nothing happened. Harry noticed that Voldemort was shaking beside him with barely stifled laughter. “Harry, the text is written in Parseltongue. It is only natural that the magic placed upon the parchment would be in Parseltongue as well.”

The young man grumbled testily, eking out something that sounded suspiciously like _show-off_.

Voldemort lifted his yew wand, delicately placing the tip against the map. The whispered spell was nothing more than a hiss to Harry (and _damn_ , Parseltongue would have really come in useful right now), but the effects were immediate: the jagged, faded outlines of the map melted away, and flowing, black script, as vivid as fresh ink, blossomed in its wake.

The Dark Lord’s eyes skidded over the page. Harry could only watch the tremor shuddering through those pale, slender fingers, the serpentine features slackening in unadulterated shock …

And Voldemort had not known, not for certain, even though he had thought he recognized the magical signature; but the name at the bottom of the parchment made it clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt: the text had been written by Salazar Slytherin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I claim Voldemort's potion and Luna’s Spangled Snookers as the result of my overactive imagination.


End file.
